"Master Sirius wants to meet with Wizard Hayes," Kreacher said formally.
"Master?" Arthur raised an eyebrow. "It seems you two have sorted out your differences." He gestured for the elf to continue. "Is there something important he needs to discuss?"
"Kreacher does not know," the house-elf replied with a shrug that was almost dismissive. "Master Sirius gave Kreacher a letter to pass along."
Kreacher produced a letter from the folds of his grimy pillowcase and held it out.
Arthur accepted the parchment, recognizing the rough tear from a book binding. As he unfolded it, his mind drifted back to that night at the Department of Mysteries—pulling Sirius into the Mirror Dimension just as Bellatrix's curse passed through empty space, the look on everyone's faces when they thought Sirius had fallen through the Veil.
He remembered their conversation afterward. Sirius learning the truth about Regulus's heroic sacrifice. The revelation about Horcruxes. Giving him a basilisk fang and sending him on a mission to end Voldemort's immortality.
Arthur found himself genuinely curious about what Sirius had been up to this past year.
—
One Year Earlier
Sirius Black apparated into Grimmauld Place with murder in his eyes. The ancient house seemed to sense his rage, shadows writhing in corners as he stormed through dusty halls.
"KREACHER!" His voice echoed like thunder.
The house-elf appeared, hunched and silent.
"You miserable sack of filth!" Sirius snarled, his voice echoing in the stone-walled room.
Kreacher looked up, his expression one of pure loathing. "The blood-traitor master has returned. Has he come to throw out more of my Mistress's treasures?"
"You put Harry in danger," Sirius said, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. He loomed over the tiny elf. "You lured him to the Ministry. He could have died. I could have died. Why? Because you hate me? You're a disgrace to every house-elf who ever served with honor."
Kreacher simply bowed his head, his lips moving in a silent, continuous stream of curses. Filthy master… unworthy of the name Black… should have died with the mudbloods…
Sirius spent the next ten minutes yelling, venting a lifetime of frustration, but it was like shouting at a stone wall.
Finally, exhausted, he remembered Arthur's words: Ask him about the last task Regulus Black gave him.
He took a deep breath, his anger receding to be replaced by a cold, heavy purpose.
"Tell me about Regulus," he commanded.
Kreacher froze mid-mutter. His bulbous eyes widened slightly. "Kreacher will not speak of Master Regulus to the likes of you."
"That wasn't a request," Sirius said, his voice gaining the tone of command he so rarely used. "As the last Lord of this House, I order you to tell me how my brother died."
The magic of the bond compelled him. Kreacher shuddered, his body contorting as if in immense pain. Then, the words began to pour out.
He spoke of how Regulus had proudly joined the Dark Lord and worked for him. Then he described being volunteered for a task, being forced to drink a horrifying potion in a dark cave, and being left for dead.
But the story didn't end there. Kreacher then talked about surviving and coming back again with Regulus.
Kreacher's croaking voice painted a vivid, horrifying picture of the chilling black water, the potion that drove his young master to madness, and the swarm of Inferi that dragged him under as he ordered Kreacher to flee with the real locket and destroy it.
When the tale was finished, a profound silence filled the kitchen. Sirius sank into a nearby chair, the weight of the revelation crushing him.
His brother. The quiet, mummy's boy who had followed the dark path… had died a hero. A martyr. He had defied the most powerful dark wizard in history to do what was right.
A fierce, aching pride swelled in Sirius's chest, immediately followed by a wave of soul-crushing guilt.
If only they had been closer. If they had been on talking terms, maybe he could have helped. Maybe Regulus would still be alive.
"Master Regulus was brave," Kreacher said quietly, the first words without venom. "Braver than any other."
Sirius looked at the elf—really looked at him for the first time. This wasn't just the family servant who'd tormented his childhood. This was the only witness to his brother's finest moment, the keeper of Regulus's last mission.
"The locket," Sirius said hoarsely. "Bring it to me."
The elf looked up, suspicion warring with hope in his watery eyes. "Kreacher could not destroy it. Kreacher tried everything…"
"I know," Sirius said gently. "But I have something that can. Help me finish what you and Regulus started."
Hope won. Kreacher vanished with a pop and reappeared moments later, holding the heavy, ornate locket.
Sirius could feel the malevolence radiating from it, whispers scratching at the edges of his mind. He drew the basilisk fang Arthur had given him, and brought it down on the locket with all his might.
Clang.
The fang skittered off the locket's surface, leaving not even a scratch.
"Parseltongue," he muttered, remembering Arthur's warning. "Harry needs to open it first."
Sirius set the locket carefully aside and met Kreacher's anxious gaze. "We'll destroy it together. I swear on the Black name. Once I can reach Harry safely, we'll complete Regulus's mission."
For the first time in either of their memories, Kreacher bowed to Sirius Black—not from compulsion, but from something that might have been respect.
—
The following days blurred together in dusty research and growing frustration. The Black library, for all its Dark Arts collection, proved nearly useless on Horcruxes. Even Magick Moste Evile devoted mere paragraphs to the subject, as if the very parchment recoiled from such knowledge.
"Bloody useless," Sirius growled, slamming shut another worthless tome. "Even Dark wizards won't document this properly."
He needed specifics—how many Horcruxes existed, where Voldemort might hide them, any pattern to their creation. But the magic was so reviled that practical information simply didn't exist in written form.
A week after his 'death,' just as frustration was reaching its peak, a frantic buzzing sound erupted from his pocket.
The two-way mirror. Harry.
Sirius's heart hammered against his ribs as he pulled it out. He saw his godson's face, streaked with tears, his expression utterly devastated.
"Sirius! Sirius Black! Please, if you can hear me..."
Sirius's resolve to wait crumbled. He couldn't let Harry suffer like this for a moment longer.
"Harry," he whispered into the mirror.
His godson's head snapped up. Relief so pure that it pained Sirius more about keeping the secret. "Sirius! You're alive! Are you behind the veil? Can you come back? I'll do anything, I'll ask Dumbledore—"
"I'm fine, pup," Sirius cut him off, his voice thick with emotion. "I'm alive, and not behind any veil. Listen to me. This isn't the place to talk. Can you get to the Shrieking Shack tonight, alone?"
"Yes! Of course!"
"Good. Tell no one, Harry. Not Ron, not Hermione, not Dumbledore. No one. My survival has to be our secret for now. Act as you have been. I'll explain everything tonight."
Harry nodded eagerly, then paused. "Sirius? I'm so glad you're alive. I thought... I thought I'd lost you too."
"Never," Sirius said fiercely. "You'll never lose me, Harry. I promise."
He cut the connection and began preparing. Tonight, he would see his godson. Together, they'd destroy Voldemort's anchor to immortality.
Nearly dying had given him clarity. This second chance wouldn't be wasted on old grudges and reckless behavior. He'd become the guardian Harry deserved—even if it meant staying dead to the world a little longer.